


means to an end

by Harikari



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Friendship, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-02
Updated: 2012-03-02
Packaged: 2017-10-31 23:43:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/349617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Harikari/pseuds/Harikari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock gets comfortable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	means to an end

Sherlock closes the door behind him, takes off his coat and lets it fall to the floor. He should probably hang it up. He likes the coat and he knows that properly hanging things up as opposed to throwing things around the flat and therefore "making a mess" makes John happy. Or, if not happy, at least keeps him not-angry.

But with wrapping up the latest physically exhausting if pedestrian case (victim male, age 34, divorced, mostly absent father of one) and with dealing with the resulting paperwork tonight has seemingly gone on forever. His eyes are itchy with fatigue and all he wants to do is unwind. Settle down on the couch. Possibly with a book.

So, yes, he thinks he can risk his friend's wrath. (John's wrath, after all, usually doesn't amount to much more than a disappointed sigh or narrowed eyes or -- on his more moody days -- both).

Sherlock rubs at his irritated eyes, lets out a huff of breath and moves towards the couch. He isn't in his pajamas but it doesn't matter. He's tired. And he's slept in his clothes countless times before and...

He comes to a dead stop at the edge of the large living room couch and blinks.

_Huh._

John is on the couch. John is _asleep_ on the couch.

The man is dressed in his sleep clothes; a loose fitting pair of sweats and a soft looking, blue t-shirt and socks. He's sort of squished up on the right side of the large piece of furniture, head on the plush sofa arm and limbs all folded in.

Sherlock glances at the television. The menu screen of some movie he doesn't recognize is playing and re-playing. He finds the remote next to John's head on the sofa arm and picks it up -- shuts off both the tv and the DVD player.

Sherlock's first impulse is to nudge the ex-soldier awake. To get the other man off of the couch so that he can stretch out and get comfortable. However...

The consulting detective pauses and considers his flatmate.

The fact is that if he wakes John he is likely to be annoyed, and if the shorter man wakes up annoyed he'll mumble something cranky about Sherlock's atrocious living habits or sleeping habits or lack of sleeping habits or just _habits_ in general and shuffle off to his bedroom.

And Sherlock doesn't want that to happen.

Because although he is willing to risk John's wrath about the carelessly thrown coat and even willing to deal with mostly incoherent mumbles he has no desire to deal with either of those things right now.

No, he doesn't want to deal with an irritated John.

He's exhausted and all he wants to do is settle on the couch with a book to stare it (if not to actually read) until he succumbs to sleep. Or has a brilliant idea for an experiment.

Sherlock hovers over the other man for a few moments; reaches out and places his hand on John's shoulder.

_I don't want to deal with any of his lectures_ , thinks the detective. _And having John in the room with me while I think or when I'm bored, even if he is buried in his own book or watching television and not doing anything particularly useful, isn't_ unpleasant _._

Sometimes, much like mindlessly staring at a random page of a novel, having John in the room even seemed to...help.

The hand on the smaller man's shoulder tightens its grip before letting go.

John is a light sleeper. However, he's not feeling well (which is why he hadn't gone along with Sherlock on this latest case, why he hadn't had to suffer through tedious reports on said case) and is doubtless still high on whatever medication he had taken to fight the headache and the other remaining, if mild, symptoms of his cold...

Quickly, Sherlock sits on the unoccupied portion of the couch. He grabs for is flatmate, leans back and manhandles the smaller man so that he's sprawled on top of the consulting detective. Chest to chest. John's hair _just_ brushing Sherlock's chin.

He takes another deep breath and stares up at the ceiling; turns to eye the open book on the floor flush to the couch before, being careful not to shift too much, reaching for it and lifting it up over his head.

"Wha-" sputters John just as the words on page one hundred and twelve are starting to blur together.

The smaller man shifts and stares up at his friend. "Sherlock. What the hell?"

"You were asleep on the couch."

"I _know_ I was but-"

"I needed the couch."

A pause.

"And _this_ was your solution? Why didn't you just wake me?"

Sherlock purses his lips and stares hard at page one hundred and twelve. He doesn't answer.

John makes and irritated sort of sound in his throat and starts to move. "Oh for-" He cuts off and pulls the afghan hanging over the back of the couch down, spreads it to cover both of them and settles again.

His head resting on Sherlock's chest and their legs tangled together.

"Whatever," he says. "I don't feel well enough to lecture you on the many reasons this was a _not good_ decision, Sherlock."

A few minutes pass and his breathing evens out again, his body relaxes against the detective's.

Sherlock's free arm tunnels under the afghan and wraps loosely around John's waist.

He continues to stare at the book.  



End file.
